


Does the Body Rule the Mind or Does the Mind Rule the Body?

by Cinnamonsin



Category: the 1975 - Fandom
Genre: Addiction, Cigarettes, Comedy, Dialogue, Fluff, Gen, George has postural hypotension, M/M, Marijuana, Matty and George have a smoke, Matty vapes in this AU, Slice of Life, Tour Bus, Tour life, Touring, Vaping, only because he’s massive, postural hypotension, soft, soft hours, stupid comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 14:10:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20658527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinnamonsin/pseuds/Cinnamonsin
Summary: George is too tall for his bunk, and Matty is in desperate need of a cigarette.





	Does the Body Rule the Mind or Does the Mind Rule the Body?

**Author's Note:**

> Here is another Matty x George story as promised! If you love a bit of softness, stupid comedy, and plenty of near pointless banter (I really love dialogue...) then this one is for you!  
The title for this one comes from the song Still Ill by The Smiths.  
Just a quick disclaimer: I’ve never touched a cigarette in my life, so I can only hope that my description of smoking throughout this fic is somewhat accurate...
> 
> ALSO, thank you so, SO much for all the likes lovely comments on my last story, you lot actually made me so soft with all your kind words, and inspired me to finally finish and post this piece! \^ㅂ^/ 
> 
> Sit back, put a couple of drops of CBD oil under your tongue (lol), and enjoy!

The time on his iPhone read 02:25. It was far too early for George to be up, but he hadn’t just woken up, no, he’d been up all night. His legs were pulled up to his chest, and he was nearly falling off his undersized bunk on his band’s tour bus. Being six foot four had its advantages —things like seeing over crowds, or always being able to reach the top cupboard, but it also had its disadvantages, and one of those disadvantages was not fitting in six foot by three foot spaces. George felt more and more claustrophobic with each passing moment. He was trapped in a dark box fitted with a three inch thick mattress and a few comfort items from home. He had made sure to pack his own duvet and pillow, along with an extra fluffy blanket in case it got cold, but with the size of the bed, even with a nice warm duvet to curl up in, it was always impossible to get comfortable. The band of five had only been on the road for a week, and George’s back, knees, and neck were already starting to hurt in the mornings. He was always as stiff as a board from sleeping in a fetal position every night.

He groaned out loud with the frustration and restlessness that had built up in him throughout the night. He kicked at the end of the bed, hopelessly wishing for the wall to move and grant him the few extra inches he needed to get comfortable. Not only was he tired and sore, but he had to be up for six to get to a radio station for an interview featuring him and one of his closest friends out of his bandmates, Matty.

George threw open the curtain that closed his bed off to the rest of the bus, rolled out of the bunk and landed on the carpeted floor with a thud. He angrily ripped his blankets off the mattress, and threw them in a heap on the floor.

“I’ve had enough of sleeping in that fucking box,” he grumbled exasperatedly to himself, trying his best not to wake the five other men who were sleeping in the same space. He grabbed the front end of his black fluffy blanket and flipped it out and laid it down so that it was placed flat on the floor between the two walls each lined with four bunks. He couldn’t be bothered to pull the mattress out, so the soft, thin blanket would have to do instead. George did the same with the grey duvet and put it on top of the lighter blanket. He tugged his single pillow off the end of his bunk and threw it down on the far end of the makeshift bed. He sighed, already pleased at the larger space he had to rest in, and hoped that he’d finally be able to get comfortable enough to get four hours of sleep. He bent over, folded over the top corner of the duvet, slid underneath it, and pulled it over his shoulders. He could stretch his legs out all the way. His high levels of frustration and claustrophobic tension subsided almost immediately, and he was finally relaxed enough to get some proper rest —the first he’d gotten since he left home for tour.

It _ was _ exciting; getting to travel and see the whole world while being with his best mates, creating and playing his own music that people were drawn to and loved. He was extremely satisfied with being a well known musician. It was work that only a few select people were able to do. Sure, there were flocks of kids who asked him and the rest of the band for autographs or selfies on the daily, but he never let things like that get to him. He got to do what he loved: write, produce, and play music. Since he was little, that was something he’d always wanted to do. Now, he was living out his dream. The only things he didn’t like about tour were having to wake up early all the time, and having to constantly be on the road in a cramped bus, let alone airplanes when traveling overseas. He never minded the big open lounge at the front of the bus, though. There was a big black leather couch that faced a lovely flat screen TV, a small kitchenette with a fridge full of any snacks the boys desired, and a table for eating or working on.

Adam —whom all of the rest of the group amiably referred to as Hann (his last name)— had brought a pack of cards for them to fool around with when they all got bored to the point of being disinterested with their phones or favourite video games to play on the TV.

George remembered the state of the room that the five men had left it in.

At midnight, their manager, Jamie, had suggested that they go to bed, so they begrudgingly called it quits on their intense game of poker in which the “chips” they were using were raisins from a giant box that a fan had jokingly given to Matty at their last meet up.

The table was left covered in a messy layer of cards, around which were: Matty’s laptop, George’s laptop, Hann’s phone, Ross’ half eaten bagel, John’s candy bar wrappers, a half empty bottle of cheap malbec, a bottle of tequila, a couple of shot glasses, and five empty beer bottles —each left next to their own pile of raisins. Two game controllers were absent-mindedly left unattended on the couch, and the television hadn’t been turned off properly, so during their game of poker, George had had a nice view of the _ Samsung _ logo bouncing on and off the corners of the big screen. He had also had the pleasure of hearing Matty drunkenly slur on about formulating a plan to “secretly steal all of Hann’s raisins when he’s not looking,” and witness John somehow ending up with all the aces in his hand.

George chuckled to himself with his eyes closed and finally drifted off to sleep.

_ CAN’T BREATHE! _

George’s body shouted at him as he woke up with a loud wheeze from somehow having all the air painfully forced out of his lungs.

Beyond the ringing in his ears, he heard what sounded like a muffled voice above him in the pitch dark hall. George couldn’t inhale or exhale with the sudden immense amount of pressure on top of him. Still three quarters asleep, he foolishly resigned himself to death. He wouldn’t wake up in the morning, and Ross —who was always the first to wake up, would find him lying dead on the floor, entangled in his own duvet. No one would ever know how he got there...

Just as the white light of the afterlife came into his vision, it disappeared. George could breathe again and he took a huge breath of oxygen. He coughed and spluttered like a drowning man as he filled his lungs with air. That light shone down on him again. He squeezed his eyes shut and shielded them with his hand.

“What the hell? George?!” A familiar voice whisper-shouted from above him.

“God?” George asked the voice. He was nervous. He’d never considered himself to be religious, but that second was the time, if any, to convert to whichever religion that had a god with a native Geordie accent.

“Oi, shut the fuck up, mate. Open your eyes,” the voice spoke. George did as he was told, and was almost instantly blinded by the light from a phone torch streaming into his retinas. He rubbed his eyes and saw Matty standing above him, holding his phone, shining the light down on the larger man.

“Matty?” he questioned.

“Yes it’s me, dumbass,” Matty whispered as he turned his phone’s light away toward the ceiling, lighting up the short hallway with an electric blue glow. He did his best not to laugh out loud at his disarranged friend. “What _ on earth _are you doing on the floor?” He asked.

“Trying to breathe!” George responded, still panting slightly. “What the hell happened?”

“_God_.” Matty mocked George’s previous statement jokingly. “I didn’t know you were on the floor, and I needed to take a wee, so I jumped out of bed to go to the toilet. I didn’t expect to _ land _on anyone.” Still slightly under the effects of his half litre of wine, Matty was almost in hysterics over the whole scenario.

“Are you joking?!” George whisper yelled, appalled at Matty’s lack of care, but still not wanting to wake Ross, John, Jamie, or Adam. “You could’ve broken my ribs! You could’ve killed me, Matty!”

“I’m sorry!” Matty hissed through a laugh.

“SHH!” George put a finger to his lips in reference to the other four men who were still asleep.

“Sorry.” Matty lowered his voice back to a whisper.

“What time is it?” George sat up on the floor and pushed his hair back, out of his face.

“Half three...” Matty said as he looked at his phone, then back to George. “And I need a fag. Do you mind?” His voice suddenly sounded much more sober than it had a few seconds ago. George looked at his friend, confused. Matty had been trying to quit smoking. George couldn’t even remember the last time the older man had had a cigarette; he craved them all the time, but refused to have one. It must’ve been a few weeks since Matty had last smoked one.

“But aren’t you trying to-” George started to ask.

“I need a cigarette. _ Please_. I know you’ve got a pack on you.”

“But Matty…”

“_Please, _George. I’m nervous about tomorrow. I’ve got a headache, and I’m absolutely _ sweating._” George looked more closely at his friend. Matty _ did _ seem quite on edge, and perspiration was forming on his face, despite it being fairly cool on the bus. He rubbed his hands on the trackies he was wearing.

“You can’t just give up _ now_. How long has it been, three weeks?” George rationalized.

“Two and a half,” Matty replied noncommittally. “I’ll only have one. I’ll find a vape shop tomorrow and pick up some more juice or something, but until then, I just need _ one _,” Matty pleaded. George remembered that Matty had run out of juice about three days prior.

“I can’t-”

“But you _ will,_” Matty retorted. “Where are they?”

“I thought you had to take a piss or something,” George said, trying to avoid any conflict.

“I suppose so…” Matty pulled a hairband off of his wrist and started to gather his dark curly hair into a bun at the back of his head. “But as soon as I’m out the toilet, I expect you to have that pack out,” he finished with a frustrated sounding huff and left the bunk room. The light of his phone torch disappeared through the door that closed behind him. This left still-groggy-George confused as he sat on the floor in the dark. He couldn’t give his friend a cigarette, especially not when he was trying to quit smoking them. _Though, _ it was just _ one _after all.

George stood up and felt around for his little bag of tricks that lay at the foot end of the bunk he’d vacated. Once he had it, he stuck his hand inside and blindly dug around in it in the darkness of the room. He felt a chapstick in his fingers and huffed —that wasn’t what he was searching for. He dropped it back into the bag and dug impossibly deeper. Then, there it was: a little cardstock carton with barely any weight to it. George had smoked most of them over the span of the last two days. He’d been getting better with dealing with his own nicotine issues, having a smoke only every hour and a bit. This meant he could keep the pack for twice as long as he did before; twenty in a pack, ten in a day. But it wasn’t as easy as it sounded. George worked hard to quit, and did his best to force his cravings deep into the back of his head where he couldn’t find them, especially when it wasn’t time for a smoke break yet. George was _ so _ serious about kicking this unhealthy habit that he formulated a schedule so that he could only have one every hour and twenty minutes. He planned to gradually move forward to two hours, then three, and so on until he didn’t need them anymore.

He’d tried a vape like Matty’s once, but it just wasn’t the same. One just doesn’t get the same feeling from it. There was just something so _ satisfying _ about holding a fresh pack, feeling its weight in your hand, peeling off the cellophane wrapper, pulling out that first fag. Something so aesthetically pleasing about placing it in between your lips, just feeling the weight there for a moment, then using your spare hand as a shield from wind or rain as you light it up with a single flame. The first inhalation that burns so pleasantly as the smoke fills your lungs. You feel like a badass, then you feel relaxed. The instant calming effects of the nicotine entering your system, rushing through your blood as your heart beat slows ever so slightly. The usually unthought of act of exhalation becomes so much more exhilarating as the smoke leaves your mouth, your body, in a beautiful, hazy, delicious fog as if it was never there, evenly dispersing into the air as if it never existed. Something so _ raw, _ so _ organic _about cigarettes that one just can’t replace with a vape pen or chewing gum.

“Hand them over.” George startled out of his daze as he looked up at Matty, whose phone torch shone down on him as if he was being interrogated. Behind the light, George could make out Matty’s figure holding out a hand to collect the packet that rested in his own fingers. George’s gaze fell back to it as he wished helplessly for one of his own.

“Come on then,” Matty rushed, motioning for the packet again.

“I’ve got two…” George mumbled blearily.

When had he last had one? It had been that evening during their card game. He’d left his hand and raisins at 11:20 for a smoke break five hours ago. Was it fate that he had only two cigarettes left? George needed one as well; it would help him relax before going back to sleep.

He pulled one out for himself, closed his eyes and sighed. He didn’t bother to open them back up as he gave the last one to Matty, defeated. What was the point in arguing with him anyway? There was none. George understood the older man’s situation as he too was trying to pull himself out of addiction, but in that moment at half three in the morning, needing to talk to the press in less than three hours then perform later that night, the two men were in dire need of a cig break.

“Here mate.” Matty slid the cigarette behind his ear and held out his hand for George to take. George found it in him to grasp the smaller man’s hand and haul himself up off the ground. The blood running through his veins suddenly rushed to his feet, and his vision faded for a moment. He blindly groped for something to hold onto as he stumbled as though intoxicated.

“You alright, George?” Matty asked concernedly. He placed a slightly clammy hand on the taller man’s arm in an attempt to support him.

“Yeah, yeah.” George waved him off. He blinked as he began to regain his sight —another struggle of being as tall as he was. George dealt with this quite often, but the lightheadedness usually went away in a few seconds. His vision was back, but he was still dizzy. “I’ll be fine. Just hypotension something or whatever. Doctor talked to me about it.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be having a-“

“Don’t you start with me, man,” George hissed under his breath. “_You’re one to talk._ Practically _ begging _ me for a fag, then saying that if _ I _ have one, it’s a _ bad _ thing?” He scoffed. “Shut up_. _ I’m _ fine_.”

“Fuckin’ hell, mate, you certainly woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” Matty said as the two made their way to the front of the bus.

“No, I woke up on the fucking _ floor _ after you _ jumped _ on top of me, _wanker_,” George retorted as he fidgeted with the cigarette in his fingers.

“Sorry about that,” Matty giggled. “Why _ were _you on the floor anyway?” he asked as he opened up the door. “Did you fall out of bed or something?”

“_No. _ I couldn’t sleep in that goddamn bunk. I’ve got my knees pulled up to my fucking neck, and I _ still _ don’t fit,” George answered as he pulled his lighter out of his sweatpants pocket; Matty had given it to him a while ago. Their band’s name was inscribed in fading white letters on both sides of the small black object. “My back aches, and my joints keep cracking in the mornings. I can’t play drums with a bad back. I’m not forty years old, for fuck’s sake, I shouldn’t have a sore back all the time,” he complained. He sparked a flame with the lighter and held it against the end of the cigarette between his lips.

“Oh…” Matty said. There was a long moment of silence between the two as he looked at the sky. The stars lay spread out in the inky black expanse above them. There wasn’t a single cloud in sight, at least as far as he could tell. The empty car park that the bus was in was barely illuminated by a lamp that dimly shone down on the two men, casting a faint orange filter over the lenses of their eyes. “I’m sorry… can I borrow the lighter?”

“Yeah.” George handed it to him and took a deep, long drag on his cigarette. Matty followed suit and lit his own. He surprised himself when he coughed slightly as he inhaled through it. A puff of smoke escaped his lips as he did so.

“Not used to it anymore…” He gazed down at the paper wrapped tobacco in between his fingers, taken aback by his body’s reaction to the smoke.

“Don’t go back.”

“Hm?”

“_Don’t go back. _Don’t get used to it again,” George advised. He slid down the side of the bus so that he was sitting on the pavement; one knee up, the other leg stretched out, the top half of his bare back was pressed against the cool metal siding, the lower half exposed to the breeze flowing underneath the chassis. He took another drag and let wisps of acrid tobacco scented cloud leave his mouth as he relished in the peaceful feeling that the nicotine gave him. For a brief period of time, his frustrations were forgotten.

Matty joined George on the ground, crouching, and took another drag, this time without coughing. As he exhaled he decided to take a shot at blowing a smoke ring, but he didn’t quite manage it. George noticed this and chuckled slightly. He inhaled deeply through his cigarette and attempted the same feat. A perfect circle of smoke appeared in front of his eyes, and faded almost as quickly as it came.

“Nice,” Matty said. George looked over at him and offered him a smile.

“You’ve got to pop your jaw out like this,” George showed him as he blew out a few more Os.

“I _ know _ how to do it,” Matty said indignantly. “I just… didn’t get that one…” He flicked the first of his ashes on the ground. He watched intently as the miniscule pile of embers burned red for a moment and, with the cool breeze of the night, soon faded to black. “Anyway,” he turned back to George, “what’s been on your mind as of late?” George blew some smoke out of his nose as he snorted quietly at the question. The pleasantly familiar taste of the tobacco heightened on his tongue.

“Oh, not too much really. Thinking about shows and stuff,” he replied. “I guess I’ve been wondering where we are, though.” He glanced around the vacant car park, and took in the eerily serene lack of surroundings. There were no landmarks around them to give any hints as to their whereabouts, just the grey-turned-orange back of the large building to their right.

“I’m not quite sure either…” Matty replied, suddenly perplexed as if he hadn’t thought anything of the state or province they could be in. “We’re obviously still in America, since we haven’t been stopped at the border or anything,” he said.

George hummed in response, “What state do you think?”

“I don’t know any states.”

“You have to know at least _ one_.” Matty thought for a moment, searching his cerebrum for any state names he could think of, continuing to smoke as he did so. He knew city names as he always greeted the city they were in at all their gigs, but the fifty states always eluded him. “Oh, California. That’s easy enough,” he said. “And Texas… and…? Is _ New York _ a whole state, or just a city?”

“I think it’s both.” George looked up into the sky. “We could be _ anywhere, _really.”

“This is why people call me a walking _ dictionary, _not a walking _ atlas_.” Matty laughed as he sat down fully on the pavement. George laughed with him.

“You’re right. It’s both,” Matty decided after a minute, taking another puff. He twirled a loose dark curl around his free hand’s index finger. “Should I cut my hair?” He asked after a moment.

“Hm?” George looked at him quizzically.

“That’s what _ I’ve _ been thinking of lately. Quite selfishly spiteful of me, really.” He raised an eyebrow. “I’d like to prove to everyone that I’m not just my _ luscious_, _ bouncy _ curls.”

“Well I think everyone knows that you’re more than that,” George said with a snort.

“I’d just like to see what people think of me without my hair.”

“Are you planning on shaving it _all_ off?” George asked incredulously.

“No, no,” Matty chuckled. “Maybe four inches or so; just short enough that it isn’t the focal point, but long enough that my head doesn’t get cold.” He laughed, George joined him.

“Should I do it?” Matty asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe wait until you don’t want to do it _ just _ to spite everyone. Wait until you _ actually _ feel you need a change,” George suggested.

“I _ do _feel that I need a change,” Matty said. “I’ve been wearing it like this for yonks. I look like a mop.”

“Come on, it’s not _ that _ bad.” George grabbed the curl that hung down the side of Matty’s face and pulled at it lightly so that it straightened out, then let it go, allowing it to spring back to its natural texture.

“Little bit dry, but-”

“Oh, sod off.” Matty giggled and whacked George’s hand away. “You’re one to talk.”

“Hey!” George slapped Matty on the shoulder. “Fuck you.” He laughed.

“Fuck _ you,_” Matty bit back playfully. He rolled his eyes to himself. “What’s wrong with us?” He laughed.

“I don’t fuckin’ know,” George responded with a grin and a shake of his head. An exceptionally cool gust of wind drifted around them.

“Jesus, it’s chilly out here.” Matty shivered. He shuffled over to George and pressed into his side, hoping to find some sort of warmth there —which he did. George looked down at him with an eye roll of his own. He wrapped his free arm around Matty’s shoulders. The shorter man let out a small “ooh” and snuggled even closer to George.

“You’re so warm,” he commented. He lifted his cigarette back to his mouth and took another drag.

“Thanks,” George said sarcastically. “You’re so _ cold_.” He rubbed his hand up and down Matty’s arm, trying to create a bit of warming friction against his horripilation.

“Let’s finish our fags and go back inside…” Matty said and hastened the pulls he took on his cigarette. George continued to take his time, savouring the feeling.

“You tired?” George asked as he continued to run his hand along Matty’s cold, bumpy skin. The older man hummed in response, as if he wasn’t really sure of his answer.

“I suppose. I only got out of bed to take a piss and steal a fag off you.”

“Hey!” George stopped rubbing.

“Don’t be cross at me,” Matty chided. He pulled the younger man’s hand back to his arm, encouraging him to continue rubbing, which he did reluctantly. “I thought you would be asleep in your _ bunk_, but you _ weren’t_, and I woke you up and thought I may as well ask. So I _ did _ ask you in the end, didn’t I?” George rolled his eyes and snorted.

“Yes, I suppose you did,” he said. “Though you practically _ coerced _me into giving you one, you twat,” he continued under his breath.

“You could’ve said no, you’re just too nice,” Matty joked.

“Too nice, my arse.” George snorted again. He took a drag.

“Look, if you’re really that upset, I’ll buy you a new pack tomorrow. Would that make _ Georgie _ happy?” Matty sneered and pinched George’s cheek. A cloud of smoke escaped George’s mouth prematurely.

“Oh fuck off.” George pulled his hand away from Matty’s arm and swatted at his still pinching fingers. “Ow!” He shouted when the smaller man refused to relent, and put more pressure on his cheek. “That shit hurts!” He managed to pull Matty’s hand away and rub at his smarting face. “_Cunt_...” He mumbled under his breath. “And yes, that _ would _make me happy.” He took another drag on his cigarette. Matty barked out a laugh.

“_Alright _ then.” He giggled and continued to smoke.

“You going to start back up?” George asked in reference to the habit that the two men shared.

“No…” Matty answered slowly. “I just ran out of vape juice. I like the mango one too much to go back to these… they taste shit.” He laughed.

“Yeah.” George shrugged with noncommittal agreement. He noticed the white of his fag dwindling away, the burning end racing closer to the filter.

“How are you doing with your little schedule?” Matty asked. George looked to Matty’s fag, and noticed his was in the same condition as his own.

“Alright so far. I think I’ll try for one every two hours in like… two days?” George questioned himself.

“Sounds good. You’re moving along.” Matty nodded

“I’m trying.” George finished his cigarette and shoved the burning end of it into the concrete to extinguish it.

“How about I buy you a nice vape pen like mine? Instead of a new pack of fags?” Matty extinguished his own cigarette.

“Nah, I don’t like that. I don’t want to get hooked on fucking mango flavoured vape juice, you camp.” George laughed and hauled himself off the ground. He felt lightheaded as his nicotine infused blood instantly rushed from his head to his feet. “Here.” He managed to hold out his hand for Matty to take.

“Suit yourself,” Matty shrugged with a grin. He took George’s hand and let the larger man pull him up. George opened the door to the bus and the two walked back inside. The interior of the bus was still cool, but it was much warmer in comparison to the breezy car park outside.

“I need some water,” George said as metallic blue floaters started to appear in his vision. He grabbed the counter to stabilize himself, and opened the fridge. He grabbed a bottle of water, twisted the cap off, and proceeded to chug the whole thing in less than a few seconds.

“Someone’s fucking thirsty,” Matty said snidely. George grabbed another bottle in hopes that hydrating himself would make him feel better. He opened it up and started drinking again.

“_Jesus, _George, you’re gonna piss the bed!” Matty exclaimed. George made a muffled noise through his nose as he continued to swallow. He finished his water.

“No I won’t.” George spoke clearly as he wiped a few stray drops off of his chin with the back of his hand. He looked at the clock on the microwave that read 4:15. “We have to get up in less than two hours anyway. And besides, even if I do, I won’t piss the bed, I’ll piss the _ floor_.” He laughed. Matty rolled his eyes and giggled.

“You really like sleeping down there?” He asked.

“Of course I do. Those fucking bunks are an absolute nightmare. I think I’ll stay on the floor for the rest of the tour,” George answered.

“Isn’t the ground a bit hard though?”

“Yeah, but I left my mattress in the bunk ‘cause I was too tired. It’s not really that big of a deal though. Anything’s better than shoving yourself into one of those little boxes.” George grimaced at the thought of making an impossible attempt to get comfortable in his bunk.

“Kim, there are people dying,” Matty said in his best valley girl accent. “You’re just a fucking giant, that’s the issue,” he continued in a condescending matter of fact tone.

“Oh piss off, you hobbit.” George chuckled at Matty’s irritated countenance, loving how easy it was to get under the older man’s skin.

“I’m going to roundhouse kick your arse one of these days,” Matty seethed jokingly as he petulantly punched George on the arm.

“Oh, go on. _ Go on_,” George jibed with a smirk, knowing that Matty could never even try.

“_One of these days._” Matty repeated himself lowly. George rolled his eyes in a failed attempt to look serious.

“I’m going to bed,” he decided aloud.

“To _ floor_?” Matty echoed George’s tone.

“Oh my god, I hate you.” George tried not to laugh at the shorter man’s sorry excuse for a joke. “Are you still drunk?”

“Maybe,” Matty replied with a shrug. “I don’t think so.”

“Well if you are, you’d better sleep and sober up before our interview. Don’t want you going off about snack foods anymore than you already have,” George said.

“You _ know _ we’ll probably share a joint beforehand anyway. Who knows what I’ll go off about this go ‘round.” Matty chuckled in spite of himself. George took a moment to think.

“Mate, I think I just had a revelation…” he said suddenly. “Why haven’t we tried to quit smoking pot yet?” He asked with genuine curiosity. He’d never thought of trying to cut down on weed before. Matty’s eyes widened. 

“You can take my fags away, you can even take my vape pen away, but there’s _ no way _ I’m gonna get rid of my weed.” Matty said sternly.

“One step at a time?” George figured that they could get around to it later on. Matty gave him an incredulous look of sheer disbelief.

“_George_,” He began seriously. “it’s _ not _ going to happen. You of _ all _ people quitting weed? Yeah _ right_. That’s less likely than _ me _ quitting.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” George said. He almost couldn’t believe that he’d even thought to make that suggestion.

“But if you really want to, you can get THC vape juice.” Matty shrugged.

“No, _ew. _That’s naff,” George replied with conviction.

“...This conversation isn't going to go anywhere, is it?” Matty asked with a giggle. “It’s too early for this. I’m going to bed,” he decided and turned to head to the bunks.

“I’m coming too,” George said quickly, not wanting to be left alone. The two quietly tiptoed into the bunk hall and settled in their respective beds; George on the floor and Matty in the top bunk.

“Goodnight Matty.” George whispered upwards as Matty pulled his black out curtain shut. The mechanism made a horrendous screeching sound that seemed to echo through the whole bus as he did so.

“_Fuck_, that’s so loud,” Matty sniggered aside to himself. “Goodnight George,” he replied.

“Would you guys _ shut up_?” Hann said snappily as he pulled his own curtain open and stuck his head out. “Some of us are trying to fucking sleep.” He shut the curtain and the two other men chuckled quietly to themselves as they heard their irritated friend huff loudly and flip over in his bunk. Matty and George laughed as they quickly spoke up in unison;

“Goodnight Hann.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, loves! I hope you got a kick out of this one (cos I certainly did when I was writing it lol). Leave a like, or a comment to let me know your thoughts on it! Please tell me if there’s anything I can fix to make it better. (I feel like the ending was a bit rushed cos I’m bad at ending stuff. AhhhH)  
ALSO, I’ve been working on a longer multi-chapter piece that I’m still working out the fine details of, so hopefully that will be up soon! 
> 
> Bye for now!


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